Road to Boston
by Arraydesign
Summary: Will and Mac meet on their way to cover the Democratic convention in Boston 2004.
1. Chapter 1

Travelling Companions

July 2004 _ACN Studios, New York_

Will pokes his head into Charlie's office.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Yeah. Come on in for a second, will you?" he beckons Will into the room. "You're driving yourself up to Boston?"

"Yeah… I was going to leave after my segment…Is there a problem?"

"No. No. Not a problem. Listen… I want you to take someone with you."

"It's okay Charlie, I like driving alone."

"No. I want you to take someone with you. A new producer we scooped from ABC Washington. MacKenzie McHale."

"Ah Charlie," Will whines, "I want to use the time to be alone."

Charlie shrugs. "So you'll be alone with Mac. I don't see the problem."

"I don't want to spend three and a half hours making nice to the new guy."

"Well first of all I've never known you to make nice, and second of all Mac isn't….oh never mind… take Mac with you. Consider it an order, or do it to please me…I don't really give a damn Will, but Mac's producing for you this whole convention so you may as well pony up."

"What the hell? What happened to Richard?"

"Richard's not going."

"Yeah, I'm getting that. Why the hell not?"

"Cause we're sending MacKenzie."

"That's not an answer!"

Charlie sighs. "We're looking at Mac for dayside….probably News at Noon…or maybe even for late night ten o'clock."

"You're looking at me for ten o'clock!"

Charlie nods. "Yes, we possibly are, so give Mac a ride to Boston, Will. Do the week together. We'll see how it shapes."

"Jeezus, Charlie. What was wrong with Richard?"

"I don't know. You tell me." There's a silence while Charlie glares and Will tries to look guileless. "Mac will be waiting for you in the lobby after your segment. I poached Mac from ABC with promises of an EP position. Mac's good. Very good. On the road to excellent. So don't fuck this up, Will"

Will shrugs, "Whatever."

"Mac's bright, articulate, and passionate about the news. I think you're going to get along like a house on fire."

"We'll get along like something's on fire."

"Oh good God, Will. Spend a few hours together, will ya?"

"You know I'm still going to want Richard," he shakes his head and disappears down the hall toward hair and makeup.

"You already burned that bridge," Charlie calls after him.

When Will makes it down to the lobby later that evening there's no one there but a young woman leaning against the wall, wearing an ACN ball cap and a worn brown leather jacket. She pushes off the wall as he exits the elevator, holding out her hand. "Hi. You're Will McAvoy," she says

"I am," he says reaching inside his jacket for a pen, "did you…"

She looks down at the pen and smiles. "I'm MacKenzie McHale," she says.

"Ah. Right. Of course you are." He stands for a minute, then shakes her hand briefly, "Good to meet you."

She cocks her head to one side, lifts her chin and pins him with a dark chocolate stare. "What? Too young, or too female?"

He sighs and reaches down to pick up her Ralph Lauren duffle bag, "Fuck Charlie Skinner sideways," he mutters.

"No. I don't believe I will," she says, deftly taking the bag out of his hands and shouldering the strap. "Where are you parked?"


	2. Chapter 2

Driving Lessons

July 2004 _Interstate 95_

They're passing the off ramp for Hartford, discussing, just a little passionately about how they're going to cover the convention, the protesters, and the police union, and whether or not Will comes off on air as smart and articulate or just an asshole. Mac has the dash light on for the passenger side and her feet up on the seat with her legs crossed so she can balance her art sized spiral bound in her lap. She's been writing for quite some time, since they moved on to talk about covering the protesters and the fenced free speech area. When Will glances over he realizes that MacKenzie is crafting copy for him for the top of the broadcast. "Listen," he says, "Maybe this would go better if you drove and I took notes. I'm not sure I can read your writing."

"I'm pretty sure you can… it's all block letters…." She looks over at him but now he seems to be very purposefully not looking at her. " Wait… this isn't about my writing, is it? It's about my _**writing. **_I know how to write Will. Oddly enough I'm quite proficient, not, you know Vanity Fair, but certainly Newsweek."

She's sneering a little, but he thinks it's not exactly aimed at him, and he's astute enough not to poke an angry bear with a stick, so he just shuts up for a moment and lets her continue.

"Besides, I don't know how to drive a car."

He's astounded. He's not sure how old she is, but she must be at least 25. "What do you mean, you don't know how to drive? Where the hell did you grow up?"

"In cities all over the world, you ass, and it was never necessary."

"What do you mean?"

"New York, Paris, London, Dubai, and a little bit of time in Kuala Lumpur."

He glares at her briefly then looks back at the road. He wishes he didn't actually enjoy the way she says the word ass; the long soft a… the implied h…"I get the cities….I meant why wasn't it necessary."

"My father's a diplomat. We always had drivers. I didn't need a car at college."

"Which was?" he prompts.

"Cambridge."

He rolls his eyes just a little. "I see."

"What does that mean?"

"Oh nothing_ just explains some of the 'ruling class' attitude. No wonder you're an EP."

"Oh for god's sake. When did you learn to drive?"

"Hmmm. I was about nine, I think."

"What do you mean?"

"I was about nine… maybe eight."

"God, Will. Where did _**you**_ grow up?"

"On a farm…outside a small town…. in Nebraska. Drove a tractor as soon as I could reach the pedals. It's not unusual. Someone's got to drive at harvest and even if a kid's not big enough to lift a bale he can drive a tractor."

She looks at him, reassessing her version of his past. "You're a farm boy?"

"I was."

"I bet they called you Billy Bob."

"You'd be wrong. No one called me Billy Bob"

"I might," she says speculatively.

"My name," he says bruskly, "Is William Duncan McAvoy. You may call me Will, or William, or McAvoy, or late for dinner. You may not call me Billy Bob."

She looks at him from behind her eyelashes for a few devastating seconds. "Well, just Billy then, and I appreciate your use of the conditional.

They drive in silence for a few moments. Will wonders what he could possibly say to get her to look at him like that again, but it's Mackenzie that breaks the silence.

"Nebraska hmmm? Well, I have to say, that puts a whole new slant on your carefully created northeastern prick persona."

"Thanks," he says drily, "It's sometimes hard to know if the image comes across."

"No worries there," she says, folding her arms and staring out the window, focusing through the darkness on the highway ahead.

"I could teach you to drive," he offers. The words flying unbidden from his unconscious mind.

She looks at him coolly, "Your lack of trust, my need for control, two tons of steel and plastic… what could possibly go wrong?"

MacKenzie does eventually learn to drive, at the age of 30, in a jeep on a Canadian forces base near Kandahar, with a nineteen year old farm boy from just outside of Melfort, Saskatchewan in the passenger seat. He laughs at her nervousness and determination, and gestures widely down the road. "Just look where you want to go ma'am, and the vehicle will follow….no ma'am look farther down the road, then she won't keep veering off."

"Call me Mac, not ma'am," says MacKenzie from behind clenched teeth. It's hot and dusty and nothing like New York or Connecticut, but the kid's blond hair and easy smile makes her heart twist a little.

"Yes ma'am," says the kid, grinning at her like this is the best fun he's had in weeks, "but really, trust me, you'll be fine… you just gotta keep lookin' farther down the road."


	3. Chapter 3

Insomnia

Boston July 2014

Early the next morning… not enough time later…

Holiday Inn and Suites

Democratic Convention

She's wakened at 4 a.m. by an insistent knocking on her door. As she starts to open it Will pushes through.

"Your father is Sir John McHale" he says accusingly

"Ah..." she says, still sleep addled, "Yeah."

"He's the former British ambassador to China."

"What's the fuck is going on"

"He was Thatcher's U.N. ambassador!"

Mackenzie leans her for head against the edge of the open door, "I hate the internet," she moans.

"The High Commissioner for Malaysia in the mid 80s"

"Mmm hmmm..." she lets the door fall closed behind him.

"When were you going to tell me!" he yells.

She startles. "I'm still not quite awake here... What's this about?"

He stops to look at her, tousled hair, the dark sensuality of her eyes. He takes a slow breath to stop the arousal that is sliding up his spine.

"Sorry did I wake you?"

"No I had to get up to answer the door anyways," she deadpans.

"Mac! He wrote _**'The Sleeping Giant Wakes: China in the 21st century'**_! Do you know how much of his stuff I had to read in college? International Law? Political Science?" he's just a little wordstruck.

"I am somewhat aware," she waves her hand vaguely, "he's written a bunch of stuff"

"He's done some brilliant work on international relations with the far east…"

"It's every poly-sci major's wet dream…"

"Did you not think to mention this?"

"Right...no I usually do as part of my introduction... Hi my name is Mackenzie McHale and although I'd like you to value me as an individual person for my own skills and talents let me tell you about my father..."

He's still fixated, "What was it like growing up in his house?"

"Except for the fact that he can say 'MacKenzie, young lady, you're grounded' in four different languages, I imagine it was pretty much like yours," she says dryly.

There's a beat. A moment of something she can't quite put her finger on and Will goes silent and seems to pale. There's a tiny silver thread of tension hanging in the air, and MacKenzie breaks it with a moan, "God, Will, it's 4 am. Why are you awake?"

"I don't sleep much."

"And therefore apparently neither do I."

"Oh. Right. Sorry." He looks slowly around her room, taking in the clothes she dropped on the floor before she crawled into bed, the shell night light, the computer that she left up and running.

"Can I buy you a coffee," he says, suddenly contrite, "I mean, it's already almost morning."

She smiles at him, a wide, sleepy, intimate thing, and he has to take a deep breath to stop himself from reaching for her to smooth the tangles out of her hair.

"I doubt it, Billy. We're in Boston, not New York, but I'll let you try." She wanders back to her duffle bag and rummages through it to find a long loose blouse to pull on over her camisole and leggings, then slides on a pair of flats.

"There's always Dunkin Donuts"

"I thought you said coffee, Billy!"

He laughs and holds the door open for her. "I'll find you something," he says as he follows her out.


	4. Chapter 4

**As Far As The Eye Can See**

Boston July 26, 2014

Holiday Inn and Suites

Democratic Convention

* * *

_A/N Sorry this took so long, and yes of course I ripped the foreign aid stuff from West Wing… and not that I'm comparing, but Sorkin would have too ;-)_

When he opens his door to the knock she's busy looking at her notepad. She looks much more professional, and somehow more mature. Dark pants and jacket, a classy leather messenger bag and a small vertical frown line between her eyes.

"So it's Carter and Clinton tonight, but first we've got to get some footage of the free speech area. I think we should get that kid, Elliot whatever, to do a stand-up there. It'll look better with someone younger and a little looser" she looks up at him, "No offense…just want to play to your strength."

He's a little nonplussed. He's never really had an EP this direct. He opens his mouth, but before she can say anything she looks at his tie critically, "You got anything else in there?"

"Ah…yeah, but what's wrong with this one?" he's totally out of his depth now.

"A little too Ted Baxter not enough Ted Koppel. We'll have an intern pick something up before you go on air. Navy blue with a thin red stripe or pattern, something that says club tie without admitting which one"

She starts off down the hall, leaving him still standing in the doorway.

"Will?" she looks back at him, "You coming, or are you just going to stare at my ass."

He swallows and straightens his shoulders, "Yeah. What's after the protesters…. there's a Brooks Brothers over on Newbury….. and I'm more of a leg man, really. Maybe you want to reconsider **your** wardrobe? You know one of those skirts with a slit up the back."

"Are you flirting with me, Billy?"

"Maybe… I mean, you're picking out my clothes and all,"

"Well it's a thankless job, but someone has to do it."

He's really not quite sure if she means flirting or choosing clothes, but he knows enough to shut the fuck up. The door falls closed behind him, and he strides down the hall to catch up.

00000000000000000

She's in his ear and in his sightline all late afternoon and evening, calm, cool and crisp. She's right beside the camera, feeding him lines, ideas, questions, information. He's not really used to having his producer in his eye line, and he kind of thinks he likes it. At least he likes it when it's Mac. It feels easy; like this has been going on forever. They finally get a long break during News Night when the feed goes back to Ed Wyatt in New York, and Will has only a response during the A block and an update at the half hour.

During the final stretch of News Night, Mac is scrolling through the updates on her blackberry. "Hey, did you see that Michael Wolf says Kerry has to be careful about looking hypocritical for claiming to be a defender of middle class and poor Americans because he's rich, Ivy League, upper class…?"

"I did," he says absently. He yawns and stretches, turning his neck to release the kinks. He's pretty sure he only got a couple of hours sleep, and as usual he's grateful for the light wash of makeup hiding the dark smudges under his eyes.

Mac looks at him appraisingly, and launches in with, "I mean the thing is, who else should do it? It's come to the point in American politics where only the upper class can run for public office…"

"Really?" he says sarcastically.

"So it has to be up to the Democrats to_"

"I think that's just a fallacy from the liberal left. Our history is full of elite ultra-rich Republicans who defended the poor and middle class successfully... remember Teddy Roosevelt? Or how about Thaddeus Stevens, House Republican leader when the national income tax was instituted who said "It would be manifestly unjust to allow the large money operators and wealthy merchants, whose incomes might reach hundreds of thousands of dollars, to escape from their due proportion of the burden"

"Do you have these quotes memorized?"

"I'm an informed member of the electorate."

"You're a Republican!" she says triumphantly.

"It's not a secret."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"Right...no I usually do as part of my introduction... Hi my name is Will McAvoy and although I'd like you to value me as an individual person for my own skills and talents let me tell you that I'm a Republican," he smirks at her.

She narrows her eyes at him. "Congratulations on your prodigious verbal memory."

"Oh come on… it was funny."

"A little bit, yes."

"I could hardly help but be a Republican...I'm from Nebraska...Republicans as far as the eye can see, I mean if you cut us we bleed red."

She looks at him, "...I think we all do, Billy."

He waves his hand at her, "You know what I mean," he says, "Anyways the point is, I guess I didn't even really know there was an alternative until I went to Stanford law. But hey, Miss Liberal, Republicans are more than just anti-government drones, they're hard working men and women who believe in market solutions and common sense; who think this country should be defending itself against a dangerous world, and that Americans should come first in government priorities."

"So we should cut foreign aid?"

"I didn't say that, but sure; who wants to put money in a hat in Botswana when you got hats that need filling here." He's getting just a little wound up.

"You can't make this about charity. It's about self-interest. We cut farm assistance in Colombia. Every single crop we developed was replaced with cocaine. We cut aid for primary education in northwest Pakistan and Egypt; the kids went to madrasahs. That's the fact of it, and now we're dealing with the fallout! There's a way to defend America that doesn't focus on military solutions!"

"So the democrats have to be smart enough to use the facts at their disposal. I'm not going to do their job for them! And I actually am not opposed to all forms of foreign aid, I just think we need a better eye on where the money is going, and I don't think I'm the only moderate republican out there!"

"Nope, just the only one I'm working the Democratic Convention with. Who did you piss off in New York, Billy?"

"Nobody!" he yells.

She looks at him with a half smile, her head tilted just a little. It's what he's stared to think of as her 'aren't I cute' expression. "Are you warmed up for our next foray into enlightening the American electorate? We're back in two minutes, need some water?" She passes him a water bottle, and gives him such a devastating smile that he almost pours the water down his brand new tie. Before he has time to analyse the messy confused feelings that are swirling around his brain they are back on the convention floor for the intro to Jimmy Carter, and then they slide into the feed from Little Rock.


End file.
